by Jacob Rayne
‘You want to burn the fucking place down while you’re on,’ Baz cut in.
‘That too, once we’ve checked for any human survivors.’
‘There won’t be any,’ Osmo said. ‘Trust me on that.’
Osmo was right. They found only torn, mutilated bodies of animals and people. They also found the corpses of some strange, bat-like things the size of house cats. They didn’t know what to make of them, so they bagged them up and took them to show to Osmo.
‘Looks like the offspring of the thing that was in the barn,’ he said.
One of the tramps that they had in custody confirmed that this was the case. ‘The creature was trying to breed,’ he said. ‘It knew it was dying and was trying to ensure its race would carry on.’
The thought of more of the things running around made Campbell shudder. ‘We need to make sure the damn thing didn’t manage to breed,’ he said.
Jones and Osmo nodded in agreement. After a second, painstaking search of the barn they confirmed that there were no surviving bats.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Osmo said. ‘Can you imagine the chaos that those things would cause?’
It wasn’t worth thinking about. One of the creatures had managed to slay dozens of victims.
They drenched the barn in petrol, making sure that plenty of it glugged down into the pit. They drew a trail of petrol out into the field, retreated to a safe distance and threw a lit match into the grass. The flames raced into the barn, consuming the building and belching out thick black smoke.
They watched the flames build, Osmo, Baz and Campbell all shedding a tear for those they had lost, then they went to drown their sorrows.
XI
Dwayne had got into one of the cars that had been kept at the outer edge of the farm. Over the years they had taken a lot of vehicles. They had scrapped most of them to get money for food when victims weren’t readily available. The remaining half a dozen cars were hidden in strategic locations around the farm for the specific purpose of fleeing in case things went south.
He hauled the body of the policeman’s wife into the back seat, taking care to lie it on its back so as not to damage the precious life that grew in her belly. She should be considered lucky that she was dead, as those things made a hell of a mess when they chewed their way out of the womb.
The vast majority of the creatures died upon leaving the host’s body, but he had high hopes for this breeding. The stomach bulged as the creature inside moved. He hadn’t seen such strong movements before, so he was confident that this one would thrive.
A couple of miles from the farm, he pulled over, hearing the wet chewing sounds that he knew heralded the arrival of the infant creatures. He turned into the back seat to see a mass of dark blood oozing out from between the legs of the corpse.
Less than a minute later, the creature’s pale head appeared. Its tiny grey tongue flicked at the congealed blood that lined the wound. It let out a mewling cry that made Dwayne smile. This one was strong. Its tiny, wing-like arms hauled it forward, a taste of the blood that coated its lips seeming to provide the strength it needed to emerge into the twilight.
Dwayne felt honoured to witness what was sure to be the first successful breeding of his master’s race in years. The puppy-sized creature was beautiful, and, with sufficient care, affection and feeding, would give him the eternal life that his dead master had promised.
While he watched the creature feasting on the meat of the dead woman’s thigh, he noticed her belly twitching. He watched in amazement as a second pale snout poked out of the ragged hole between the woman’s legs. It let out a high-pitched cry like its sibling and proceeded to yawn and sample the blood around the wound. Invigorated by the blood, it crawled out into the car.
Dwayne was amazed at the spectacle. Living twins were unheard of, as one always killed the other while they were still in the womb. He had something exceedingly special here. He watched the beautiful creatures feast for a while, then he pulled away and headed to the next town. He knew of an abandoned barn there that he could use to raise these vicious little miracles.
Enjoyed this book? You might also enjoy the work of these great authors…
Iain Rob Wright (www.iainrobwright.com)
Bestselling author of Horror and Suspense. Active member of the Horror Writer’s Association.
Matt Shaw (www.mattshawpublications.co.uk)
Horror’s Darkest Imagination. EXTREME CONTENT.
Craig Saunders (www.craigsaunders.blogspot.co.uk)
UK’s premier writer of Horror, Fantasy, and Fun.
Michael Bray (www.michaelbrayauthor.com)
Bestselling author of Whisper, a #1 hit!
Ian Woodhead (www.ianwoodhead.moonfruit.com)
A master of nightmares.
Graeme Reynolds (www.graemereynolds.com)
Dark tales from a twisted mind.
Stuart Keane (www.stuartkeane.com)
Author of compelling horror stories and member of the Horror Writer’s Association.
Tim Miller (www.timmiller.org)
Extreme Horror Author.
Greg James (www.manderghastpress.co.uk/)
Author of critically-acclaimed literary horror and a best-selling dark fantasy trilogy
Read on for a taster of the terrifying Dying Breed apocalyptic horror series:
I: Integration
Nothing ever happens in Taunton, Mark thought with a grimace. The town was the kind of subdued dwelling hated by the young and sought by the old.
He groaned as he set off to meet his friend Rick for their weekly trek to the mall, a trip which was becoming as pedestrian as every other aspect of life in Taunton.
The only thing that kept him going was Rick’s razor-sharp putdowns and the hope that something exciting would happen.
‘Fat chance,’ he muttered, touching a flame to the tip of the cigarette that poked from between his lips.
He glanced around furtively as he inhaled the warm smoke. The last thing he needed was for one of his mother’s friends to see him with a cigarette.
The only thing worse than the dull routine of going to the mall would be being grounded.
Mark pushed his shoulder-length blonde hair away from his forehead. His jacket was making him sweat in the heat of the day so he went hands-free on his smoke while he removed the garment.
‘Whoa, gay t-shirt,’ said a voice from his left.
‘Fuck you, Rick,’ he said, turning to see his friend grinning and flipping him the bird.
‘Going to spend some of your rent boy money?’ Rick beamed.
Rick winced as Mark’s fist slammed into his shoulder.
‘Whoa, you hurt, man. No fair.’
Mark grinned and flicked his cigarette at his friend. It landed on his chest, sending sparks flying everywhere like a miniature Catherine wheel.
‘Ok, message received,’ Rick said.
They chatted as they walked, the consensus that the day was going to be as mind-numbingly dull as any other.
But this would not be the case.
At the mall, they shoved their way through the crowds. For two fifteen year old boys, the jostling masses of semi-naked women were a godsend. Rick’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he saw a pink thong peaking from between the perfect buttocks of a curvy blonde.
‘Seen at least ten girls I’d fuck,’ he grinned.
‘Ditto.’
‘So where you wanna go? Just get some shakes like normal and watch the chicks go by?’
‘Maybe in a bit. I want to get some new trainers. These are practically falling off my feet.’ He raised a shoe that was more hole than material.
‘If we have to,’ Rick groaned. ‘But don’t be long.’
‘Stop whinging. There’s nothing else to do.’
Rick shrugged.
The bargain sports store where Mark bought his trainers was crammed with sweating, jostling punters.
It was a little overwhelming – a crowbar would have been needed to get mor
e people into the store.
The walls were ten feet high, covered in shoes and racks of clothing. The staff all wielded six foot long poles so they could reach the items on the higher shelves.
Mark shoved past a woman who had clearly dodged any sporting activity since he and Rick had been in diapers and headed for the men’s trainers.
‘It’s fucking red hot in here,’ Rick said, fanning air onto his face.
While Mark waited for a path to clear to the shoes, someone barged into him. He almost turned and planted him one but the fact that the man was built like a brick shithouse put him off.
He was bald and had a blue Lakers cap wedged on his skull. His entire face was contorted by an expression that was equal parts agony and lunacy, and he staggered as if heavily intoxicated.
‘Whoa, he’s loaded already,’ Rick said. ‘Not even twelve yet.’
Mark shushed him, not wanting the big guy to hear and become angry.
Mark cursed under his breath as the big man turned and looked right at him. It seemed he had heard the exchange and thought it was Mark who had insulted him.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Mark said, his hands coming up instinctively in front of his face.
A strand of drool came from the right side of the man’s grin. His eyes looked unfocussed and glazed over. He seemed to be looking through Mark.
His mouth moved but the words didn’t make sense.
‘Hee no. Come aaaa. Helmee.’
The man looked distressed and more uncoordinated than ever.
Before Mark could ask him what he meant, the man turned, taking out a young girl as he lunged forwards.
‘Noo,’ he shouted, frantically looking over his shoulder as he shoved deeper into the crowd.
Voices of protest came from the other customers, but they were blotted out by the blaring of the store’s alarm.
‘Think someone’s holding the place up?’ Rick said. ‘That’d be pretty cool.’
A few dozen people managed to shove their way out through the crowd before the store’s shutters began to come down.
Mark heard a scream over the siren and looked back to see a huge man in a black uniform appear. His face was obscured by a large, ominous-looking gas mask.
His beefy hands clutched a submachine gun.
Sylvia Arlington could pinpoint, to the exact second, the moment her husband, Ray, had died.
He’d been snuggled into her back, his arms encircling her, at the end of an ordinary Saturday night. They’d gone out for a meal with friends, come home, had an extra beer apiece then retired to bed.
In the midst of her persistent insomnia, she’d felt her husband’s breath on the back of her neck and his heartbeat resonating through her still frame.
As she began to fall back to sleep, she suddenly became aware that Ray’s next heartbeat hadn’t come.
He didn’t draw his next breath, just convulsed for a few seconds before falling still.
It was a pathetic protest against death’s onslaught.
An hour later she woke with the feeling that her memory had been a dream.
The clammy feel of her husband’s skin convinced her otherwise.
Ditto the lack of the rise and fall of Ray’s flabby chest against her back.
The stiff arms were the final clue. It felt like she was trapped inside a skin and bone cocoon.
Screaming, clawing at the dead limbs, she fought her way free.
She turned to face the lump of lifeless flesh that had, a mere hour ago, been her husband and let out an ear-piercing shriek.
As they neared the island, the waves tossed the small boat around like a toy in the hands of a reckless child.
Sergeant Kyle Hammett of the US Marine Corps braced himself against the side of the cabin. He still hated being on the water no matter how many times he did it.
Corporal David Bowes laughed at him and nudged his shoulder.
‘S’up, Sarge?’ he grinned.
Hammett glowered at him but the haymaker he was planning on delivering to Bowes’ gut was disrupted by another bout of rough waves.
‘Fucking boats,’ Hammett grimaced. He glanced around the small cabin. All eight of the other men didn’t seem bothered about the waves or, what was to Hammett, the blindingly obvious fact that the boat could descend beneath the tide at the drop of a hat.
As he was second in command behind Captain Lance Abbott, he wished he could show a better example to the men. But the sea fucking terrified him.
Privates Parker and Goldstein were busy slapping each other around the face, their ritual to get themselves ready for battle.
Hammett admired their bond. They were closer than brothers, having grown up together and enrolled on the same day.
His eyes continued round the cabin.
Captain Abbott was asleep in the front passenger seat, just as cool as you like. Hammett had a healthy respect for the forty-five-year-old Texan captain.
He’d been a young recruit back in ’Nam. No one had expected the skinny redneck to last a day, but he had been the only survivor from his platoon.
The captain had guts and balls in abundance. It was an honour to be serving with him.
Pike and Green were solemn, concentrating on cleaning their assault rifles. He detected a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake in Green’s hand.
At least it’s not just me scared of this fucking death trap, Hammett thought.
Frost was as cool as his name suggested, smoking an inch thick cigar and reading a dog-eared Richard Laymon paperback. He nodded a greeting as he felt the Sergeant’s eyes on him.
Hammett nodded back and looked round the boat.
Mann was thumbing through a yellowing deck of cards which depicted naked women in various groin-stiffening positions.
‘Wow,’ Bowes said. ‘Check her out.’
Mann looked up and scowled. ‘Get yer own fuckin’ cards,’ he grunted.
Bowes left him to it. Everyone knew Mann was an accident waiting to happen. It was a well-known fact that the twenty-year-old with the psycho’s grin and detached manner had only joined the Marines so he could kill.
‘So what’s the story, Sarge?’ Mann said without looking up from the leather-clad lady bending over the back of a Harley Davidson.
‘What?’
‘Well, we been on this fuckin’ boat for bout an hour now and ain’t no one said what we’re doing here.’
‘We’ll be briefed when Captain Abbott wakes up,’ Hammett said. ‘Right now I know as much as you do.’
Mann scowled again and fell silent.
‘So we gonna have to kill anyone?’ Frost said.
‘I have no idea,’ Hammett said.
Frost nodded and took another draw on his cigar. The smoke he exhaled smelt stale. ‘We seem to be going out a long way,’ he noted.
‘Yeah, seems to be the case,’ Hammett said, noting the churning ocean through the porthole.
He couldn’t wait to set foot on dry land again.
Whatever the mission he was sure it would be a piece of piss compared to the boat ride.
How wrong he would be.
At the sight of the gas-masked man all hell broke loose.
It seemed like everyone in the store was screaming and shoving towards the exit. The shutters slammed down, trapping the petrified masses in with the gunman.
One man was stuck halfway through the shutters, his face twisted into a pained grimace.
A woman’s ankle poured blood as it was mangled beneath the metal barrier.
The nearest customers tried to help by pulling the shutters up, but they were wasting their time. The metal shutters continued to crush down into the fallen.
Mark looked around. The best way to go was probably upstairs. With luck, the gunman wouldn’t be able to reach them up there. The second floor also had bats and golf clubs and other items that would make good weapons.
As this thought registered, the gas-masked man’s gun spat fire. The gun’s report was much louder than Mark would have
imagined.
A man fell, his forehead spraying blood which spattered over the people behind him.
The crowd scattered, some of them heading for the stairs. Others headed for the staff room.
A second gas-masked man emerged from the staff room. His muzzle flashes lit up the anguished faces of the people nearest to him, then they dropped, riddled with oozing bullet holes, into the pool of blood that was already spreading across the floor.
Most of the crowd was keeping low now, except for a group near Mark and Rick in the corner, who stood peeking through gaps in the hanging garments.
Mark saw the gunman blast a path to the drunken man in the blue cap. Bodies fell as his gun tore holes in their flesh and liberated thick gouts of gore. He fought his way to the man in the blue cap and started struggling with him.
The drunken man gave as good as he got and broke from his attacker’s hold.
‘Little help,’ the gunman shouted. His voice was muffled by the mask and sounded alien.
The second man came out of the staff room. His path cleared as the remaining bodies scattered. He stepped over the carpet of bleeding bodies and grabbed at the man in the blue cap.
The drunken man managed to evade the clutches of both assassins. They struggled for almost a minute, then the second gunman pulled out a black device that looked like an electric razor.
He pressed it hard to the back of the drunken man’s neck. Sparks lit up the room and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.
The drunken man’s legs buckled. The two men took an arm each and started dragging him towards the staff room.
A woman moved in front of them, blocking their path.
‘This isn’t right,’ she pouted, folding her flabby arms across her chest. ‘Leave him alone.’
The gas-masked man didn’t reply, just used his free hand to raise his gun and blow a ragged hole in her belly. As she landed on the floor in a bloody heap, his booted foot slammed into her face and cut off her screams as her teeth crashed together with a sickening crack that echoed round the store.
